East 10th Street
Boomy. Gizzy. Doody. Tsilly. These aren’t the giddy babblings of a toddler, learning to speak. They’re a sampling of the names of friends and relatives who populated my early life.
After landing in America in 1948, my parents’ social circle was comprised entirely of Holocaust survivors like themselves, plus a handful of relatives who’d emigrated before the second world war. That latter group was known by their Americanized names. The refugees kept their childhood nicknames, which sounded weird to my ears.
In their early to mid-twenties, the new arrivals quickly got on with their lives. After finding work, they married, had children, bought homes. My family moved from a rental apartment in Jackson Heights, Queens into a small, modest house in the Midwood section of Flatbush, a 20-minute drive from their sheet metal shop near the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. I was four years old.
Photo by Alexander Rotker on Unsplash
One of my earliest memories is from the night we moved to East 10th Street. My sister, two years old, stood in her crib, chatting non-stop with the moving men. “Yentaleh, go to sleep!” said the exasperated mover. She couldn’t – it was all too exciting! Our new house had three small bedrooms, a basement, and a backyard, where my father installed a swing set. It was heaven.
On both sides of our street, large elm trees shaded the 1930s era houses. A few were one-family homes like ours, but most were duplexes: two 1,440 square foot homes, mirror images of each other, sharing a common wall in the center. On either side of the duplex, each family had an alley leading to a small garage.
The people next door to us were the Nolans, a lovely family with three grown-up-seeming kids. Their oldest son, tall, reedy, bespectacled, with a serious manner, politely acknowledged us kids before slipping into the house to visit with his family. Their drop-dead gorgeous middle son was a college student who joined the Peace Corps after graduation and was about to be stationed somewhere overseas. The youngest Nolan kid was a daughter, Eileen, still in high school. With shoulder-length blonde hair, sculpted cheekbones, and an enormous smile, she radiated warmth. Like her parents, she was kind and friendly to my young self.
One day, standing on my back porch, looking out at my “kingdom,” I saw a man inspecting the yard on the other half of the Nolan’s duplex. He said hi and told me his family was moving in. “Anyone I can play with?” I asked, boldly. He looked at me carefully and laughed. “My daughter, Jeannie, is about your age. I think you two are going to like each other.” He was right. Sixty-four years later, Jeannie and I are still friends.
Bottlecaps were a precious resource. Photo by Timothy Dykes on Unsplash
East 10th Street was full of kids – boys and girls my age and older. We played stoop ball on the front stairs, hopscotch and bottle caps on the sidewalk, and stopped cars from driving down the street when a stick ball game was in progress in the middle of the road. I was in and out of my friends’ houses. The side door screens slammed shut behind us as we’d enter through the kitchens. My friends’ parents insisted I call them by their first names: Irving, Nadia, Gladys, Herb. Children addressed my parents as Mr. and Mrs. Stern, never Thea and Harry. First names were reserved for grown-ups. Children were expected to show respect. So, my friends rarely hung out at my house, where my grandmother, an ever-present guardian, slapped their hands if they opened the refrigerator searching for snacks, as they did freely in each other’s homes.
On the stoop of the Solomon’s house. 15 yo Mindy, unknown cat, Beverly the dog, and Herb
Every year, for Christmas, the Nolans welcomed neighbors into their house. My parents, not wishing to seem impolite, accepted the invitation – the only time we ever participated in Christmas holiday celebrations. It was also the only time we socialized with our other neighbors. An enormous tree filled the Nolans’ low-ceilinged living room. Every child was given a small gift. It was warm and comfortable. This family had somehow broken through my parents’ barrier of distrust. Although not Jewish, they were deemed “good guys.” We were comfortable in their presence. I spent endless hours at Jeannie’s house, but as our next-door neighbors’ children were a half-generation older than me, my relationship with the Nolans consisted mostly of saying hello and goodbye when we happened to open our doors at the same time.
Once I left home for college, I returned to East 10th Street only for a few days at a time. I found work on campus during summer vacations, started earning money, began traveling within my limited budget. Anywhere seemed better than home.
At some point the Nolan house was sold. Eileen was long-gone, perhaps married. And then my parents sold our house, and moved to Florida. My only remaining tie to East 10th street was Jeannie. Her mother passed away, but her father, Irving stayed until his death in 2003, and Jeannie lived nearby.
My grandmother used to scoff at the politics of our neighbors. “Communists!” she’d huff, with undisguised contempt. I thought she was exaggerating. Sure, they were left-leaning, but communists? It turns out, she was spot-on. Before Joseph Stalin was exposed as a brutal dictator, several families on our street joined the communist party. Idealistic young couples, they wanted the world to be a better place. Our block was frequently visited by black-suited Jehovah’s Witnesses, seeking to convert us. They always came in pairs. My grandmother chased them away with her cane, yelling, “We have our own religion! Leave us alone!” But some of these suits were actually FBI agents, checking up on our neighbors, intimidating them.
In their early twenties, Jeannie’s parents moved surreptitiously to a different city, providing a safe house for communist party members during the McCarthy era. My grandmother learned about it from Jeannie’s grandmother. Other neighbors were also ex-commies, and their kids were called “Red-diaper babies.” Although their parents had given up on communist ideology, they remained intellectually curious and politically active, encouraging us to protest for civil rights, against the Vietnam war, and to align with progressive causes. I had no idea about the Nolans – were they, too, ex-commies, or just liberal thinkers? Their children attended Sunday School at the Society for Ethical Culture, a Humanist religion that promotes social justice and a civil, ethical society. Probably not former communists, just progressive thinkers.
In late 2019 – before the Covid pandemic – I was talking to Jeannie. “Do you have any idea what ever happened to Eileen Nolan? Do you have any contact with her?” Like me, Jeannie hadn’t seen Eileen in decades. But a few weeks later she called. “She lives in Portland, Oregon.” A quick Google search led me to her website. She’s an artist whose work is featured in Portland galleries.
I sent Eileen an email. “This is the once-little girl who lived next door on E 10th. I just discovered you're in Portland. You have no idea how much I looked up to you and admired your family for what I perceived as its progressive political leanings. If you’re willing, I’d love to meet you. Let me know if you are open to connecting. Thanks for being a very positive influence in my life, even though you didn't know it!”
Eileen wrote back immediately and we agreed to meet the next time I visited Portland. Then, Covid hit and put the brakes on travel. Three years went by. Finally, I’m on the train to Portland. And Eileen and I will see each other for the first time in over fifty years.